Applaud the Hollow Ghost

by David J. Walker

  “Jesus,” Gus said. “You think that’s gonna stand up in court?”

  “Not at all,” I said. “But it convinced me. So I kept at it. Trish said her pants were pulled down and she was pushed to the floor. Later she changed floor to ground. But her clothes weren’t wet. Then she claimed it was inside the enclosed back porch, but everyone knows this wasn’t true. That whole area is rough and broken concrete, and Trish didn’t have a scratch on the backs of her legs or her buttocks. So where was it? In the house?”

  “It was Dominic,” Rosa said, “in his house.”

  “With Steve due to pick her up?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “Maybe Steven called Dominic and said he’d be late or some—”

  “That’s right,” Steve said. “That’s exactly what happened.”

  “Oh? So then Dominic felt free to attack Trish … with Lisa right there in the house? And Karen expected to arrive any minute? Not likely.”

  “This is all bullshit,” Steve said. “He’s making it up as he—”

  “I want to hear the man,” Gus said. “Shut up!”

  “Trish’s denials convinced me that it did happen in a garage. So, I thought, probably Dominic’s garage. Later, when the cops showed me photos of it, I saw there was plenty of room in the garage, but the floor there is concrete, too. Not as broken up as at Lammy’s, but rough enough, and filthy. There’d have been scratches on Trish’s body, and traces of dirt and oil. But there were none. So … what floor? What gar—”

  The phone rang. Gus picked it up and listened. “All right. No, nothing. Just stay out of sight. And call me if anything happens.” He hung up. “Go on,” he said.

  “Everyone agrees,” I continued, “that Trish would never have left Dominic’s just because she was bored.”

  “That’s right,” Rosa insisted. “And Steve called and told Dominic he’d be—”

  “That can be checked out,” I said, “by phone records.” Whether it could or not, a look passed over Steve’s face that told me I was right, and that I only had to keep on pushing till he broke. “I say Steve didn’t call. And I say he wasn’t late. He did come. He picked Trish up in his van and drove home with her, into his garage. That’s where it happened. I don’t know how far he went with her before he let her go, or she broke away.”

  “It could not be,” Rosa said. “It was later when Steven got home and—”

  “Maybe he sat in the garage,” I said, “or maybe he—”

  “Shut up and let me think,” Gus said. He pointed a finger at me. “Steve’s garage. What’s that floor made outta?”

  “Concrete, for chrissake,” Steve said.

  “And the van fills the entire space,” I added, “with hardly room to get out of it. But there’s plenty of room—and a carpeted floor—inside the van.”

  “He’s still making this up,” Steve said, but he got no answer from anyone.

  “No,” I said. “The cops took Trish’s clothes. Their lab found no blood, no semen. That’s what they were looking for, to start with. But they had a perpetrator identified, anyway, and there was no rush to go further at that point with the clothes. Lammy’s lawyer, though, is the super-cautious type. And even when the charge was dismissed, she had the clothes analyzed herself. The child’s pants had traces of fiber on them. Fiber that matches the fiber in the carpeting used by the conversion company when they customized Steve’s van.” I was making it all up now, although Renata had talked about having the clothes analyzed. “Fiber with the same blue dye.”

  “They would match,” Gus said. “Trish mighta rode in that van every day.”

  “But…” Rosa’s voice trailed away. She was staring at me.

  “But what?” Gus demanded.

  “That … that was the first night she wore those jeans,” she said. “I remember. They were a Christmas present, and she begged me to let her—”

  “That’s something I didn’t know,” I said. “But I do know they found fibers on Trish’s jeans, inside and outside—and on her underpants as well.” I paused. “Trish was inside that van, parked in Steve’s garage, when her pants—”

  Steve was fast for so large a man, and his lunge carried him the few feet to the library table before anyone could stop him. In one motion, he scooped up the Beretta and hit the table, slamming it into Gus and sending him toppling over backward in his chair.

  All of us were on our feet instinctively, but Goldilocks was the closest, and the first to make a move. Steve turned and fired once. Goldilocks stopped in his tracks, one hand clutched to his chest and the other drawing wild circles in the air, like a man wobbling on a tightrope. He never got his balance though, before he toppled heavily forward onto the floor.

  Raymond’s twin had a gun in his hand, too, but by then Steve was behind Rosa. Without a clear shot, the gunman hesitated. And when he did, Steve shot him as well—twice. Both slugs tore into his chest, and one of them must have opened an artery. The man lowered his chin, as though he were studying the dark, dark blood that spurted and foamed from his shirt front. But by that time he wasn’t seeing anything at all. And he never would—not in this world.

  CHAPTER

  41

  BY THE TIME GUS was back on his feet, Steve already had his left arm wrapped around Rosa’s neck and was inching his way backward across the room, dragging her along with him.

  “Jesus Christ,” Gus said, “think about it, Steve. Whaddaya got left? Two fucking cartridges, that’s what.” Gus didn’t miss much, but I wondered at first why he said that. “You can’t kill four people with two shots, even four unarmed people,” he said. “Plus there’s cops outside the gate, probably waiting for word to bust through, with a million more on the way. You got no—”

  “Shut up!” Steve was shouting. “For once in your goddamn life, shut up and let me think.”

  Gus flinched, just slightly. The look in his eyes said that, if he survived, he would one day make Steve pay for shouting him down. But when he spoke his voice was calm. “You’re right,” he said. “You should think about—”

  “I said shut up!” Steve was just one step short of uncontrolled panic. His voice was twice as loud as it needed to be. Thinking wasn’t coming easily, and that was about our only chance. His eyes swept frantically from one dead body on the floor to the other, and I knew what he was looking for. But there was no gun in sight. Both men must have fallen on their weapons.

  “… think about it. I can still get you outta this,” Gus was saying. “Otherwise you got no chance. Trust me.”

  I knew Gus wanted to keep Steve’s mind busy, keep him from figuring out how he could get to those guns. I also knew trusting Gus wasn’t going to get Steve out of there alive.

  Even Steve knew that. “If I got any chance at all,” he said, “this is it.” He jammed the barrel of the Beretta up under Rosa’s chin. “One of my shots is all it’ll take.” Steve’s gaze shifted nervously from where Gus and Lammy and I stood together, as he dragged Rosa backward with him toward the library door. When he got there he stopped, then moved about six feet to the side of the door. “You tried to trick me with that two shots and four people to kill bullshit. Dumb old fucker. You think I forgot Raymond’s out there somewhere?”

  “I don’t think anything,” Gus said, “except you’d be smart to let me help you get outta—”

  “Shut up! Call Raymond in here.”

  “Raymond!” Gus called out in a loud voice. “Raymond! Get in—”

  The door flew open. Raymond burst through, in a low crouch, his gun sweeping the room. He froze, bug-eyed, when he saw Steve using Rosa as a shield

  “Come on farther in,” Steve yelled. “And drop the gun or Rosa’s dead.”

  Raymond moved into the room. But he didn’t drop his gun. “Mr. Apprezziano,” he said, not looking at Gus, but watching Steve drag Rosa with him to the open door, “what do I do?”

  “That’s my sister, for chrissake. What you do is you let the sonovabitch walk outta here.”


  Raymond hesitated, then started to tuck the automatic under his suit coat.

  “Uh-uh. Toss it on the floor,” Steve yelled. “Over this way.”

  Raymond glanced at Gus. “He wants my gun. Maybe he’s empty, or almost empty. I can—”

  “No!” Gus roared. “Do like he says.”

  “I don’t like it,” Raymond said. “With my gun, he might kill us all.”

  “He’s right, Gus,” I said.

  “No,” Steve said. “Nobody else in here needs to die. I’ll let Rosa go. But I need Raymond’s gun if I’m gonna have a chance outside this room. Tell him to toss the gun to my feet. Once I get it … I’m outta here.”

  “Raymond,” Gus said, “do as—”

  “Gustavo, no. This man will kill everyone.” Rosa’s voice was strong and clear. “I understand now. Steven killed Monsignor Borelli. He called me at the rectory to say he was coming to pick up Trish. She began to cry and I didn’t know why. I could tell Steven had been drinking and I told him no. He said he was coming for his daughter, that I must stop interfering. Then he hung up. I cannot believe how blind I was. Trish was attacked by Dominic, I thought, but now her father is drinking every day and this is why she cannot stop crying and trembling. So I took her.” She paused. “He must have come and killed the priest.” She tried to twist her head to look at Steve. “You would rape your own daughter … and then murder a priest, a holy—”

  “Shut up! That wasn’t murder.” Steve yanked Rosa closer to the doorway. His voice was trembling, but still loud. “He wouldn’t tell me where you were. I only shoved him, and he fell, and—”

  “And Tina, Gustavo,” Rosa said. “Steven murdered her also. She must have seen the truth I could not—”

  Steve pulled his arm tighter around her neck and Rosa couldn’t talk. “She’s crazy,” he said. “I had nothing to do with Tina. That was Dominic. He got pissed-off at her for some reason I don’t know. He told me he hit the bitch a few times and…” He paused. “Anyway, no more talk. Gus, tell Raymond to give me his gun and I swear to you … no one will be killed. Otherwise…”

  I leaned toward Gus and spoke softly. “Whatever you decide, don’t believe him.”

  Gus just waved me off. “She is my little sister. Give it to him, Raymond,” he said. “Just do it.”

  Raymond stood motionless for a few seconds, then leaned and tossed his gun gently forward onto the floor. It slid along the polished wood, and stopped only a few feet short of where Steve stood in the open doorway.

  “Good,” Steve said. He crouched to the floor, pulling Rosa clumsily down with him. Then he withdrew the barrel of the Beretta from Rosa’s neck, angled it upward, and shot Raymond—dead center, just below the throat.

  Raymond stared at Steve. “Goddamn you,” he said, his voice hardly more than a harsh whisper, “you fucking mick.” He took one short, hopeless step forward. Still in a crouch, Steve was ready to fire a second time, but he didn’t have to. Raymond opened his mouth. Maybe just an unconscious reflex, or maybe to curse Steve again. Either way, no words came out. There was nothing but a terrible gurgling sound, and then Raymond crumpled to the floor.

  At the same time, Rosa let out a loud moan of a sigh, and passed out. The dead weight of her body sagged against Steve. For just an instant he struggled to keep his balance. Then he shoved her away from him, grabbed Raymond’s gun with his left hand, and stood up.

  It was only when I heard Lammy’s frightened gasping beside me that I suddenly felt him clinging to my arm. I shook myself free. Steve was facing us, a pistol in each hand and a grin on his face that showed he’d left sanity far behind. My Beretta was still in his right hand—the barrel aimed directly into my face. “You should have stayed outta this,” he said. “But maybe you’d rather watch your fat friend die first.” As he spoke, he slowly swung the gun and, when it was aimed straight at Lammy’s chest, he squeezed the trigger.

  The snap of the hammer, as it fell on an empty chamber, came as a surprise to Steve. But not to me, or to Gus. We’d both counted the first six shots from the Beretta. Then the old man conned him with the suggestion that he had two shots left, not even knowing what the trick might be worth. And Steve—the gun freak—bought it because he wasn’t thinking.

  While Steve recovered, tossing aside my gun and switching Raymond’s to his right hand, I threw myself hard into Lammy’s side. He crashed into Gus and the two of them went sprawling to the floor. Steve fired twice, and the crash of breaking windows came simultaneously with the second blast. Meanwhile, the phone began to ring. And somewhere amid the roaring barks of the semiautomatic pistol and the shattering glass and the phone ringing—and all of that nearly drowned out by Gus’s screams of pain—I shot Steve.

  The little chrome-plated revolver I’d picked up near Dominic’s body was a .22 and it didn’t pack much stopping power. But still, Steve dropped down onto one knee. Raymond’s gun was on the floor beside him, dropped and forgotten for the moment, as Steve clawed at the buttons on his shirt. I grabbed Lammy and pulled him with me toward the door, scooping up the empty Beretta on the way.

  Rosa was gone. In the confusion, she’d moved quickly out of the room. Her brother, though, was going nowhere. Gus was lying on his face, and he wasn’t moving at all.

  CHAPTER

  42

  THE PHONE WAS STILL ringing as Lammy and I raced down the hall toward the kitchen. When we got there, Rosa was standing in the open door to the housekeeper’s room. Trish and Karen peered out from behind her.

  “He’ll be coming in a minute,” I said. “You still have the key, Rosa?”

  “Yes.”

  “That phone must mean the police are coming. Lock yourselves in till they get here,” I said. “But don’t tell them I was here. If they find out, I’ll go to jail.” When none of them answered, I said, “Okay?”

  Rosa may have nodded. Or maybe I imagined that … or hoped it.

  “I think Steve will come after Lammy and me.” I paused. “But in case he doesn’t, and if he has a key … take this.” Rosa cringed as I reached past her and handed the little revolver to Karen. “It won’t be long. Don’t worry. You’ll be all right.”

  Rosa stepped back and pushed the door closed, crossing herself as she did. Maybe she didn’t believe my assurances, and figured they needed more powerful help.

  Lammy and I had been wearing our coats the whole time. My body had adjusted to the indoor heat, so when we stepped outside, the twenty-degree air hit like a shotgun blast. Lammy was searching frantically through his coat pockets. “Here,” I said, and gave him my gloves.

  The security lights showed that a sidewalk leading to a door in a large, barnlike garage behind the house had been shoveled, but everywhere else the snow was over a foot deep. We ran down the walk as far as the garage. The door was locked, though, so we turned left and into the snow. It was frozen solid on top, but broke through when we put our weight onto it, so the going was slow. If we could just get around to the rear of the garage, at least we’d be outside the circle of floodlights.

  We’d gotten as far as the corner of the building when the back door of the house banged open. I glanced back and saw Steve in the doorway, his arm extended. I pushed Lammy around the corner and dove after him. Chunks of wood flew away from the corner of the building even before I heard the shots. I scrambled to my feet and chased Lammy toward the rear of the garage and into the darkness.

  Steve wasn’t far behind. We could hear him crashing through the snow.

  Once around the corner to the back of the garage, we broke away from the building, toward the dark woods maybe ten yards away. There was no moon and the security lighting didn’t reach this far. Still, our tracks in the snow would be easy to follow, even in the dark. If we made the trees; though, we might lose him.

  We were into the underbrush and trees by the time he came around the corner to the back of the garage. He sent two shots into the area where our tracks led in, but we’d taken a right-angle turn as soon as we entered and
were out of his line of fire. The frozen snow wasn’t as deep under the trees, but with each step the crunching sound announced our position. I grabbed Lammy’s arm. We stood perfectly still. I couldn’t hear Steve moving, either. Finally, leaning to my right and peering among the tree trunks, I saw him. He was out in the open, silhouetted against the snow and the white garage, his gun hand raised. He was standing still, too, obviously trying to get a fix on just where we were, waiting for our next steps to give us away.

  For a long moment I stayed focused on the hunter—motionless in the clearing, listening for his prey. He could have gathered up every gun in the library, and there was no telling how many rounds he had. We all waited. There seemed to be no sound at all, beyond the quiet breathing of Lammy and me. Gradually, though, I became aware of other sounds. Faint shouts, coming from far beyond the other side of Gus’s house. Plus the distant roar of an engine—alternately revving up, then dying down—and intermittent metallic crashes. They were breaking open Gus’s gate.

  I watched Steve turn his head a little and knew he was listening to the same sounds. He took one step along our path toward the woods, then stopped again. “Foley!” he called, loud and clear. “I’m whacking you, asshole. Both of you. I don’t give a fuck if I go down myself, but I’m taking you cocksuckers with me.”

  With my hand still holding Lammy’s arm, I felt him tighten up even through his puffy ski jacket, and I suddenly remembered how angry I’d been when he insisted I take that coat back to the store. He was terrified now, and ready to bolt. I squeezed his arm more tightly.

  “Don’t move,” I whispered. “Not yet.”

  Steve stood silently, hoping for some response to his threat. He took one more step, then waited again. He was out of my view now, but I could hear he wasn’t moving.

  “Lammy,” I said, still whispering. “We have to split up. When I start running, you walk, as quietly as possible … that way.” I pointed deeper into the woods, in the opposite direction from the garage. “Keep on till you come to the wall that runs around the property, then follow it to your left, all the way to the gate. You’ll be safe. The police are there.”